Where Are The Green Leaves?
p. 54 · Read in the full issue
By Joseph W. Sukwianomb
Sure enough, .
A confounded eye witnessed the unintelligible forces Devouring and digesting rocks and soil, Overpowering rivers and gullies.
“Well and good,” some desperate people say.
But then you hear the moonlight quiver in anguish, The green trees wither and bend leafless, Like a naked body ashamed to dance.
The alarming sounds of prodigious intensity, Lure the ear to breaking the eardrums, Amidst thy despicable wants, Despoils and detaches and deteriorates the green, green leaves.
In the emptiness of the dawn, An incessant low roaring of the wind, Whispers through the air in pursuit, of the green, green leaves.
Soft and alarming it blows again, Filling ears to sadden the effect, Like the morning of a funeral day.
Goddamn machines.
Development Erected with finished silver, Alien and extravagant luxury, Glittering the sun’s rays, Deceiving us below.
There, standing lifeless and boastful The cone of the architectural symbol.
Overweighing kunai huts Mud walls Gardening lands, Et cetera.
Substitution?
Plumbed in air for Cool, Clean, breeze.
Get the hell out of here, let me breathe my native air like my native husband Who will caress me plainly.